


In a manner of speaking I'm dead

by fellshish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking Games, Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, First Kiss, HalloweenLock 2017, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Never Have I Ever, because there can never be too many fics using this trope basically, brace yourselves for lots of pining, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 18:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12538488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/pseuds/fellshish
Summary: Sherlock and John accidentally dress in matching outfits for Lestrade's Halloween party. Things only get worse: someone pushes them to play 'Never have I ever'.--This fic ignores season 3 and 4, basically.





	In a manner of speaking I'm dead

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Never Have I Ever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4372328) by [hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles). 



> Yes, this trope has been seriously overused. I love it though!

“Have you thought about what you're going to wear?”

Sherlock is startled. He's stretched out on the sofa in Baker Street, God only knows how long he's been lying there. Sometimes, especially during ridiculous holidays, he likes to avoid acknowledging the existence of the outside world. Reluctantly, he opens one eye, to glimpse John's questioning face staring down on him. The bright daylight doesn't quite agree with him, so his eyelids quickly flutter shut.

“How could I not, John, as you've been reminding me of this most tedious event for weeks now.” Sherlock sighs. “Not an optimal use of a great mind, to think about one's wardrobe.”

Sherlock can almost _feel_ John's crooked smile. He's tempted to open his eyes again, but he must not grant his friend the satisfaction. Lest he think he's actually looking _forward_ to something as abominable as a Halloween party.

“Everyone's going to be dressed up tonight. I don't want you sticking out like a sore thumb”, John says, firmly putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock tries his best not to lean in to the touch, not to move. Only a microscope could pick up the corner of his mouth quirking up happily. Surely not someone with as little perceptive ability as John.

“No, we wouldn't want _that_ ”, Sherlock mumbles sarcastically into the darkness of his own mind. “I'm only going to the stupid party anyway so I don't have to stay here and open the door to _children_ begging for candy. I'd rather beg for death.”

He sighs as John lets go of his shoulder. _Why can't he just be nice to John? Why must he say such awful things?_ To punish himself, he keeps his eyes closed as he hears John move around the apartment. John grabs a large gym bag, where his costume is presumably stored – quite heavy by the sounds of John's grunts – and heads to the door, then hesitates. He turns.

“I'm off to the store to buy expensive wine for the host, from _us both,_ so you're welcome by the way _._ I have some other errands to run first, too. I'll just change on my way there and I'll meet you at 8:30 at Lestrade's place, okay?”

John pauses, but Sherlock lies perfectly still. He despises superfluous conversation, and he’s afraid he might sound a little excited. So John just walks out, and Sherlock listens to his footsteps descending the stairs. He waits patiently until John is done having polite chitchat with Mrs Hudson.

When he hears the front door slam shut, Sherlock jumps up. Time to sort out his costume, as it's almost 5 pm already and, even though he doesn't care to admit it, he can't wait to change into these clothes. His long legs step over the coffee table and he quickly heads into the bathroom. In his own private cupboard where he keeps his skin products – a place where John wouldn't be caught dead snooping – he removes a panel to unveil a hidden space in the back of it. There, safely stuffed away, he reaches for the soft hairs of a wig.

\---  
  
Slightly nervous, Sherlock rings the doorbell. He's not a huge fan of social occasions, but John has been very insistent on him coming to this one. How can he refuse him anything? Especially after he faked his death, and things went quite awry afterwards. Now they're finally settling down together again, approaching something close to happiness, to warmth and the sense of having a family, even if it is only until John finds a new toy to play with. _Oh god. There won't be single women at this party, will there?_

Before he can maniacally follow this train of thoughts any longer, down a very dark rabbit hole undoubtedly, Greg Lestrade swings the door open, already a little intoxicated. Sherlock checks his watch. It's 9:26. Isn't everyone supposed to be 'fashionably late', or whatever it is that normal people do? Or does that not count when you're personally invited to the party of a detective inspector who you occasionally solve cases for? He's not sure what the etiquette is, here. Perhaps he shouldn't have taken another nap in his costume, but it just felt so cosy.

Lestrade snorts at the sight of Sherlock, the red solo cup – _so boringly American_ , Sherlock thinks – in his hand shaking dangerously, spilling drops on the floor. He's in no position to mock, though, Sherlock ponders, because the DI is wearing an unusual spin on a police uniform. Sherlock looks him up and down, one eyebrow raised. There's white long sleeves, and a so-called bullet proof vest which is probably very much lacking any real projectile-resisting skill, and also a short skirt and high boots. Not only that, but he's also wearing a ginger, long-haired wig.

“A mini skirt? I know it's Halloween, but I didn't expect to see this horror”, Sherlock comments, trying to ignore Lestrade's legs whose bright whiteness is only barely masked by his see-through stockings. His attention snaps back to the wig. “Who are you supposed to be? Pippi Longstocking after a drunken night out?”

“Didn't expect you to recognise Amy Pond, mate”, Lestrade shakes his head, then smiles and waves his hand invitingly. “Come on in, Sherlock. I really love your costume, though some would probably say it's quite cheap.”

He takes a swig of his drink – whiskey coke, Sherlock deduces from his breath – and opens the door a little further. It opens straight into a rather large, surprisingly cosy living room, where people are scattered, chatting happily and paying him no mind. No John in sight just yet.

“It's not cheap”, Sherlock replies defensively. “I paid good money for this wig.”

He points to the grey, messy-haired shape tucking his curls safely away. He ordered it from a Chinese web shop because it was 43,8 percept cheaper than Amazon, and as it took nearly a month to arrive, he didn't have time to send it back and ask for a better one. Because this dead cat-looking thing couldn't have possibly been the same wig that respectable looking shop advertised online. So he had made do, with lots of hair product and gel, something he doubted the wig would even survive for more than one evening. Oh well.

“Right”, Lestrade says. He squints at the wig and clears his throat. “I don't suppose you want to take off your jacket?”

“It's part of the costume”, Sherlock says, and scans the room again for John. Maybe he's not here yet, because being fashionably late really is a thing that people do?

He wraps his arms around himself. The coat, though a little too small for his torso, provides him with a similar feeling to getting a hug. The Haversack brand, black cotton jacket also comes with a black corduroy collar, from which an amazing smell emanates. He could wear this jacket forever, and he's kind of glad Halloween provides him with a guise, a perfect excuse to do so.

Sherlock is inside the apartment now and as Lestrade shuts the door, a stiff figure walks up. Mycroft. He's wearing a cream coloured shirt with a brown, tweed jacket and black pants held up by suspenders.

“Thank God”, Sherlock says, “All is right in the world. At least _you're_ still above being dressed up.”

Mycroft confiscates Lestrade's red solo cup. “Oh, but I am dressed up, little brother”, he says.

Sherlock scoffs. “Wearing a red bow tie doesn't count.”

Mycroft frowns. Lestrade jumps to his rescue: “Bow ties are cool”, he says, using his pointy finger to prod at Sherlock's white cable knit jumper.

“Grant Lestrade is dressed as some sort of water creature”, Sherlock tells Mycroft, while swatting the hand away.

“Amy Pond. I am aware”, Mycroft replies. “I like Doctor Who.”

"Oh, I _love_ Doctor Who", Lestrade quirks a smile.

Sherlock frowns. “Who?”

At that moment, Doctor John Watson comes crashing in from what is presumably the kitchen area, while holding a drink in each hand. He looks up at Sherlock and his face completely falls. He looks like he's seen a ghost.

Sherlock's breath hitches, then his heart breaks. Because John's costume is nowhere near what he expected. These past weeks, John's been hiding it so carefully that Sherlock's made it his personal mission to find out what it was, just like the time his friend tried to conceal his middle name. But no matter how many times Sherlock searched the apartment, he couldn't find a trace. John Hamish Watson didn't hide it under his bed, his usual hiding place (home of an old porn magazine that Sherlock's been trying to delete from his mind palace), not hidden under the old pile of clothes in his closet, not even in Mrs Hudson's lodgings, which Sherlock also secretly inspected. So Sherlock theorised he must have hidden it at work, but his midnight snooping at the practice sadly didn't provide any meaningful insights. Sherlock had figured John must have resorted to last minute costume shopping, or had stored it in a safe somewhere because it was going to be extraordinary.

None of that. Because now that Sherlock sees John's costume, it's suddenly very clear. It's been hidden in plain sight all along.

John is wearing a suit that's slightly too big for him, his muscled legs not being complemented by its narrow pant legs, but still looking stunning. The black slim-cut jacket covers a beautiful purple shirt, but on top of it all – he must be sweating like crazy – he's wearing Sherlock's long Belstaff. No curly wig however. _Thank God, a small mercy._

They both stare at each other open-mouthed. John is the first to recover, and steps bravely forward between Lestrade and Mycroft to put one of the drinks in Sherlock's hand.

“So, eh. I guess we kind of had the same idea”, John says. Sherlock estimates he's had two beers by now, nothing too serious. “I'd been wondering where my favourite jumper was”, he smiles tentatively, pointing to Sherlock's costume, which the detective feels entirely ridiculous in about now. The white cable-knit jumper is too tight for him, anyway, and it creeps up just a little bit, probably making him look like a slutty 90s girl. _Silly, silly Sherlock._

Sherlock looks down at the red cup in his hands. It contains beer, even though he doesn't even like its hoppy taste. He feels heat rising to his cheeks. Dressing up as John, to him, was a _compromise_ , he couldn't think of anything else he would ever want to dress up as. Granted, the clothes were readily available, but he thought it might be _fun_. It might make John _smile_. Now that he sees his own clothes on John, though, it's not hard to deduce John's intent. Because John has been raving about his past costumes, being a big fan of Halloween and dress-up parties in general. John has been, as far as Sherlock remembers, James Bond, the girl from The Ring, Dracula, Bugs Bunny and even _one half of a donkey_. All characters, all fictional, a great way to get a laugh from friends. So is that how John sees him? Another character to dress up as? Sherlock briefly closes his eyes. He can only imagine John light-heartedly imitating his deductions to Lestrade, Donovan or Anderson, who are all present at this party. He instantly feels queasy.

“Well. I couldn't find your old donkey costume, but I dressed up as an ass anyway”, Sherlock says rapidly. He downs the beer in one go, hands the cup back to a stunned John, and heads to the kitchen.

The kitchen is, thankfully, completely devoid of people. There is, however, an ungodly amount of pumpkin decorations, a variety of snacks and lots of alcohol. Sherlock instantly regrets chucking the empty cup in John's hands, because now he has to find a new one. He grabs a red solo cup from the kitchen counter that doesn't appear to be used – much – and fills it with sweet, white wine. He's not really used to drinking, but surely he should feel _something_ by now, right? He decides he's probably what people call a 'good drinker', who is able to hold his liquor amazingly well, and he quickly downs another cup of wine, fills his cup once again, grabs a fancy looking wine bottle in his other hand, and goes through another door onto a small balcony. He looks over the streets of London. Weird, he'd never noticed before how the houses slightly dance to a silent beat at nighttime. He stares, drinks more wine. In the distance, he can make out the shape of the Gherkin. It almost vibrates. Or is he shivering?

\---  
  
The balcony door slides open in one swift go, downright scaring Sherlock who'd been completely immersed in the silence of the nighttime. Annoying dance music leaks into the outside world. Sherlock recovers quickly and turns, disappointment flashing across his face when he sees it's Anderson.

“Hey John, won't you come inside?” Anderson grins. “Oh wow, it's Sherlock, I almost didn't recognise you”, he taunts. Waves of foul breath laced with white wine disturb the fresh air.

“Are you lot all dressed as cops? How original”, Sherlock says. Anderson is dressed up as Columbo. At least it's something Sherlock knows, because he used to watch that show endlessly, as a child. “Do you like to pretend to be good at solving cases? Sorry, _my_ coat's already taken.”

Those last words sound more bitter than he intended, but Anderson ignores their cyanide lacing. He grabs Sherlock's collar and drags him back inside. The warmth hits him like a blanket. He suddenly realises how cold it was outside. Also, the room is kind of spinning. How much has he been drinking? He can't exactly deduce it from his own distorted point of view. He needs more data, needs to _remember_ more data, to theorise.

“We've missed you in the living room”, Anderson says. “Come and join us, we're about to play a game.”

Before he can protest on the grounds of _having good tast_ e, Anderson fills Sherlock's empty cup with beer and pushes it back into his hands. The forensic scientist drags the man into the living room, where the party has quieted down and only a few people are remaining, all seated on Lestrade's sofa and chairs in various stages of intoxication.

Lestrade and Mycroft sit in comfortable chairs next to each other, engaged in deep conversation, opposite the rather large sofa. There, John and Sally Donovan are chatting amicably, both sipping red wine. Donovan's wearing a short blue dress with the words 'Police box' printed on it, for some reason. _She's Anderson's police box, for sure_ , Sherlock thinks, _but what's she doing so close to John?_ He shakes his head. John, stupid John, John who made fun of him by wearing this embarrassing costume. Though he appears to have taken off the coat, and is now left only in Sherlock's favourite dress suit and shirt. _Coat, where's my coat?_ Sherlock panics, but then sees it's carefully hung on a rack near the door. Sherlock breathes, some relief flooding him. But then Anderson pushes him further into the room, and he drops down on an empty chair near the sofa. The only one sitting between him and John is Molly, who's been deeply immersed in her cellphone and looks up cheerfully at him.

“Sorry, I've been texting my boyfriend”, Molly says. “Don't worry, not a criminal mastermind this time.” She looks lovely in her outfit: a green dress with lighter green stockings, a feminised version of Peter Pan. The boy who didn't want to grow up. Sherlock can relate.

He smiles at her, face dropping quickly. How do people do conversation again? “You look... good.”

Close enough. He glances at John, whose back is turned to him while chatting with Donovan. They laugh, and his hand briefly touches her knee. She's not even wearing stockings underneath the police box dress. Isn't it supposed to be October, and therefore, cold? He stares at Donovan angrily. He bets John calls her Sally by now.

Sherlock reaches up to soothe his temples, but something is in the way. Angrily, he rips off his wig, throws it to the floor and tries to make his curls comply by combing his long fingers through them. It already makes him feel a little more like himself, thankfully. It also makes him feel more naked and exposed.

“Guys, guys. Now that all the boring people have left, it's time for a little game”, Anderson says. The room stills, and Anderson, suddenly too aware of six pairs of eyes staring up at him, sits down next to Donovan. _Not on the right side, not between her and John_ , Sherlock thinks sadly.

“We all know this one, we've got all we need at the ready.” Philip Anderson smiles broadly, raises his glass and slowly pronounces each word: “Never. Have. I. Ever.”

“Never have I ever what?”, Sherlock blurts out. He immediately regrets it, because all heads turn to him with not-understanding looks on their faces. He's used to getting those looks, just not for this reason.

“Of course Freak's never played”, Donovan comments. Sherlock swallows, but John shifts slightly more away from her, so at least that's something.

Molly puts a hand on his knee, soothingly. “That's alright, Sherlock. It's easy. Everyone takes turns making a statement starting with 'never have I ever', and everyone who has done the thing, takes a drink.”

Oh. So the point is to get even more drunk, Sherlock understands. That's stupid. Can't people just simply _drink_? Sherlock glances to Mycroft. Surely he, the British government personified, is not going to lower himself to playing something like this, will he? But his brother is busy looking at Lestrade, both raising eyebrows at each other. Sherlock refocuses on Molly.

“Look, I'll start”, she smiles, and thinks for a few seconds. “Never have I ever ... cross-dressed!”

She lifts her cup to her mouth and drinks, as does Lestrade, who, Sherlock notices, is still dressed as that pond lady. They grin at each other, seemingly proud of bonding over silly costumes.

Molly elbows John. The man looks down at his cup. He scrapes his throat.

“Never have I ever... Oh christ. Ehm”, he stutters. “Never have I ever been this drunk.”

He takes a large swig – considering the content of his statement probably not his best idea – and so do Sherlock, Anderson and Lestrade. Anderson and Lestrade are both lying, Sherlock estimates, because surely they've been _more_ drunk in their lives than tonight, but they probably misunderstood the nuance of the words. He starts to open his mouth, but quickly closes it as Anderson skips Donovan and speaks before his turn.

“Never have I ever snogged a person in this room”, Anderson states quickly. Sherlock's mouth falls open. He's been an idiot. Of course the point isn't to get more drunk. There must be hundreds of drinking games to provide just that service. No. The point of this game is to elicit drunk confessions. Sherlock straightens in his seat, willing the room to stop spinning. He needs to be on guard. He needs to be professional. This is a method of _police questioning_.

“Hey, Anderson, settle down, will you”, Lestrade says, looking strangely white as a sheet. “It's only the first round, for fuck's sake.”

Next to him, Mycroft gets up and disappears into the bathroom.

“Come on, I know you're dressed as a lass, but you're no sissy, are you?” Anderson retorts. “Never have I ever snogged a person in this room”, he repeats and takes a large sip from his drink. Then he scans the room daringly. Donovan shifts her crossed legs, and reluctantly takes a small sip of her red wine. They both stare at the others, but no one moves. Donovan's gaze moves from John to Sherlock and back. John is only looking at Molly. _Are they hiding something_ , Sherlock wonders. _Did they once kiss?_ His heart beats annoyingly fast in his chest.

Quickly though, the tension leaves the room and Anderson looks a little disappointed. He takes another drink, even though Lestrade, who's next in line, hasn't even asked his question yet. _So cheating is allowed,_ Sherlock deduces, and drinks some of his foully tasting beer as well. Liquid courage.

“My turn”, Lestrade needlessly points out. Mycroft returns to his seat, they both sit rather awkwardly.

“Never have I ever kissed someone on the first date”, Lestrade says, grinning as he takes a sip. Sherlock's head spins. This one is easy. He's never been on something that counts as something as romantic as a _date_. Occasional random meetings at Turkish baths don’t count - and even that was ages ago.

At this rate, he won't get much drinking done, though. He curiously looks around the room. John drinks, of course, because he's always been good with the ladies. Molly, too, guess she wasn't lying about that boyfriend. Anderson and Donovan both drink, though Sherlock wouldn't count meeting up at a sleazy motel as a date. Surprisingly, Mycroft drinks, too. Even more, he is _smiling_ while doing it. Sherlock blinks rapidly. Is he stuck in the twilight zone? A different dimension? Another planet?

As he catches John's gaze, which is laced with a hint of pity, he realises of course _Sherlock_ is the one from another planet. He's the only one who hasn't kissed anyone on a first date before, that much is painfully clear now. He sticks out like a sore thumb, he realises regretfully. This game cannot be allowed to continue much longer.

But Mycroft takes some of the tension off, as his question - “Never have I ever threatened to kill anyone while working” - makes everyone both laugh and drink, as each guest cherishes their own memories. Strange company, this one.

With a jolt Sherlock realises it's his turn. Now he should probably be smart about this. But, he thinks, this is his only chance to maybe get some truth out of John, now that he's unsuspecting and as honest as a drunk. His mind races. Must be a smart question, then. Why can't he think of smart questions? What's wrong with him? His lager's foam has dwindled, leaving a sad little yellow drink in its place.

“Never have I ever...”, Sherlock makes a point to ignore John. “Messed around with my army buddies.”

It was out before he knew it. Mycroft snorts. When Mycroft snorts, it's not a good sign. But John – his jaw is almost on the floor as he stares at Sherlock. Is it anger? Is it... something else? John looks like he's trying to deduce something, he's straining.

“What?”, John stutters.

Sherlock decides to just go with it now, so he slowly, as arrogantly as he can, pronounces each word: “Messed. Around.” He makes a wavy gesture with his left hand. “With. My. Army. Buddies.”

“Oh god, he's absolutely hammered, isn't he”, Donovan mumbles, but Anderson quickly elbows her and the whole room stares at John. The man scrapes his throat, looks at his drink, then looks at Sherlock. He straightens his shoulders.

“Sod it”, he says, and drains the cup while maintaining eye contact with the detective. Then he gets up to the kitchen to get more wine, leaving a stunned, quiet room behind, and a Sherlock in near ruins. New data runs through his mind, ransacking his mind palace.

“Alrighty then”, Molly says after twenty excruciating seconds. “Let's continue. Never have I ever... Hm. Well. How to even follow up?”

She puts her cup on the table as John returns with a half empty wine bottle. He pours her and himself generous portions. Molly fumbles with her hands in her lap.

“Never have I ever... Been in handcuffs”, she smiles brightly, proud of herself of thinking of an almost-naughty question. John and Sherlock both drink, avoiding each other's gaze. They were, of course, once in handcuffs together, running in the streets of London, almost getting hit by a bus. Good times. Anderson and Donovan also take sips, but Sherlock immediately tries to delete _that_ image from his mind palace. Molly, Lestrade and Mycroft keep it sober, and Sherlock is grateful for that. Straws. He's hanging onto straws.

 _Oh God. It's John's turn_. Sherlock groans. He'll likely want to retaliate. Sherlock grips the edges of his chair as he braces for impact.

“Never have I ever...” John looks up at Sherlock. “Had sex with some _mysterious woman_.” The words _mysterious woman_ fall out of his mouth in a mocking tone with a hint of resentment. Sherlock furrows his brows. _What on earth?_ John grins triumphantly in his direction, as if this is supposed to mean something clever.

Sherlock, of course, hasn't had sex with any women at all. He starts shaking a little. Somewhere in the background people are drinking – Lestrade, Anderson, christ: even Donovan – but somehow it feels like all this time, all eyes on are Sherlock. The longer it takes, the more confused John looks.

Suddenly, Sally Donovan starts laughing loudly. Sherlock averts his eyes and stares very intently at his drink. What woman John was talking about anyway? Then a realisation dawns on him. Oh. _Irene Adler_. He's always asking about her, isn't he? Counting her annoying texts?

“I hope you're not waiting for that nancy boy to drink”, Sally comments cruelly. Her words slide through Sherlock like a knife, but he tries his best not to show a thing. This all doesn't matter. It's not exactly _a secret_ that he is gay. Was it?

“That's quite enough”, Mycroft interjects. His brother, Sherlock notes, didn't drink in this round either. He still doesn't look up though. He has no need to deduce _anything_ from people's faces right now. Sherlock feels humiliated.

“Right, my turn”, Sally says, and Sherlock cringes. She doesn't even miss a beat. “Never have I ever had sex with a man.”

Sherlock's heart drops. Suddenly, drinking is not as fun anymore. The beat of the music is pounding loudly in his ears, and he feels everyone trying to avoid looking at him. Except Sally Donovan, who downed her drink quickly and is now downright staring. He curses each and every person in this room. But then, Molly puts her hand encouragingly on his knee. He looks up at her, she smiles carefully. “You don't have to play if it's too private”, she says gently.

“No”, Sherlock says, regaining his courage. He looks up, but only at her. Sweet, brave Molly. She has known for years now, not because he explicitly said it, but she accepted it after John came into his life. It was, after all, painfully obvious to everyone, probably.

Sherlock takes a big gulp of beer. He then lowers his cup, swallows, and looks at John defiantly. John's mouth is open, as he stares at him in wonder. He takes a drink, too. _Probably needed one after realising stupid little Sherlock has been a secret homosexual all this time_ , Sherlock deduces. _He's probably re-evaluating all those times he stepped out of the bathroom half-naked, not even knowing his roommate was a fairy._ Sherlock suddenly feels incredibly exposed wearing John's sweater.

The room doesn't stay quiet for very long, though. Anderson is grinning at him cruelly. Going in for the kill. “Never have I ever”, Anderson says, pausing shortly. “Had sex with someone who loved me.”

Sherlock freezes in his seat. He swallows hard, something not quite going down. He can't believe Anderson would ask such a question, humiliating him like that. But then again, he can imagine it. Anderson's always been jealous of his abilities to solve cases he's too stupid to solve himself, even simple ones, and he probably loathes the fact that Sherlock isn't even a real policeman. So, Sherlock again miscalculated the purpose of this game. The purpose was to make fun of Sherlock, make him feel smaller than he's ever felt. _Mission accomplished._

Before Sherlock can find any words – or courage to speak, for that matter – John has jumped forward, and in two seconds he's on top of Anderson. They both tumble off the sofa, and John hits Anderson on the nose, making it bleed instantly.

“You bloody bastard”, John yells at him. “You cheating, stupid, sorry excuse for a forensic scientist” - he hits him again - “that man has only ever tried to help you. Solve _your_ cases.”

Lestrade jumps forward and drags John off of Anderson, who's now coughing violently on the floor. “I will press charges”, he gulps, writhing.

“You will do no such thing”, Lestrade says, letting go of John. “There are no witnesses.” Behind him, Mycroft quirks a smile.

“Stop it!”, Sherlock all of the sudden yells. All eyes are at once fixed on him. He rolls his eyes, and heads for the door. While passing John, he jabs a finger at him angrily. “I am not some damsel in distress. I can fight my own battles!” He's boiling, now. “And your costume, frankly, is ridiculous!”, he adds, for good measure.

John is taken aback. “What?”

Sherlock goes off. “You heard me. You can't beat Anderson up for making fun of me, when you came here specifically dressed like that to make fun of me! Can't you see what's going on!”

John looks like _he's_ the one who's been slapped. But no, Sherlock will have none of that. John isn't allowed to play the innocent victim here; not while he's wearing that purple shirt. Sherlock takes a few strides toward the door.

“Where are you going?”, John asks, a confused look cemented on his face.

“Home! Where I should have just been this whole evening”, Sherlock lashes out. “Not on foot, obviously. Going to hail a cab.”

John shifts on his feet, then straightens his shoulders like a soldier. “Alright”, John says, and steps closer to reach for his – well, Sherlock's – coat. Sherlock, however, bars him.

“You are not coming!”, Sherlock yells at his friend, louder than he intended.

John yells right back: “Then you are not going. I swear I will call the police...” John swallows, and makes a dramatic gesture toward the several police members in the living room. “If you will not let me share this cab with you.”

They stare at each other for a few beats.

“Fine!”, Sherlock says.

“Fine”, John replies.

\---  
  
All the way back to Baker Street, neither of them says a word. Even the cabbie refrains from making any smalltalk or comments – one look at either of their faces will have established that as the smartest route to take for a cab driver.

When the black car stops in Baker Street, Sherlock runs for the door, leaving John to pay the fare. He doesn't wait for John but lets the front door fall back into its lock. Inwardly, however, he's panicking. He's nowhere near sober yet, and he really doesn't want to have this conversation. He wishes he could take it all back. It doesn't matter that he likes men, does it? But now John knows, and John, even though he can be quite dim, will figure out soon that all this time he's been in love with him. Damn Anderson and Donovan. Who were they to meddle? John will move out, thinking it's best to give Sherlock some space, and it will be their fault. _He'll lose him. He'll lose him. He'll lose him._

John finds Sherlock breathing erratically against the wall at the stairs, suffering a near-panic attack. John had looked annoyed at having to pay for the taxi ride, but now he slowly approaches Sherlock and hesitantly puts a hand on his arm. Sherlock looks at John's sleeve, which is confusing, because it's really his own sleeve. John is still wearing his Belstaff, and Sherlock suddenly remembers why, so he shakes off that hand violently and heads upstairs. No need for John to see the glint of a tear in his eye. He's been humiliated enough this evening. He's haunted by the ghosts of lovers past, who ditched him without much explanation. Sherlock knows he's not the nicest person, so they must have figured they didn't have to be too nice back, either. _Never have I ever... been loved._

Though the apartment is inexplicably spinning, and the walls are crumbling, Sherlock manages to stumble to his room, and he slams the door behind him. Maybe a tad dramatic. But he's always been a drama queen, after all. No secret there.

Inside his bedroom, he frantically removes John's jacket, yet he can't bring himself to take off John's cable-knit sweater just yet. It still smells faintly of John. He'd stolen it out of the laundry basket, for this purpose. Smelling like John would, after all, make his costume even better, right? Now he feels stupid. He steps out of his shoes and stretches on the bed, face down on the pillow. Well, that's what he gets for going to social gatherings, he supposes. For trying to... _Mingle._ Talk to... _people._

A hesitant knock on the door. Sherlock doesn't reply, but he does try to will the _stupid tears_ from his _stupid drunk eyes_. He rubs them a bit and tries to focus on other things. Murder. Headless nuns.

“I'm coming in, Sherlock”, John says to the closed door, then he gently pushes it open. On the bed, spread out on top of the sheets, is his detective friend. Sherlock keeps his head down on the pillow, facing away.

“Sherlock...”, John says, then sits down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock tenses, but stubbornly remains quiet, hoping – silently begging – he'll just go away.

“Damn it”, John says. “You yell at me that you're not a damsel in distress, but here you are, lying on your pillow!”

Sherlock tries to repress a sob, he genuinely tries hard, but the alcohol has made him tired and weak. He feels John stiffen behind him.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock, God, I'm sorry”, John mumbles. He carefully places a hand on his friend's shoulder. “Do you... want to talk about it?”

Sherlock sighs. He better just man up, and face John now. Maybe he can brush him off, postpone the inevitable conversation to tomorrow. Just let him have this one last night sleeping in John's sweater, he thinks. He wipes the moisture from his treacherous eyes, turns and sits up, his back stiff against the headboard, facing John.

“I'm fine, John. I just need some sleep”, Sherlock says, trying to smile but failing miserably.

“Do you really think I'm wearing these clothes to mock you?”, John asks softly. He has taken off the Belstaff and now only wears the purple shirt, which, Sherlock must admit, he looks rather nice in. He almost reaches over, but stops himself.

Sherlock averts his eyes. “I think you chose a character to dress as. Tell me, John. Did Anderson and Donovan laugh as you mock-insulted them?”

John's fist clenches and unclenches when he hears Anderson's name. His knuckles are chafed, but not bleeding.

“I wouldn't do that, Sherlock.” He pauses. “I thought you'd think this was funny. If anything, these clothes are a homage. To you.”

Sherlock stares at him, incredulously. A homage?

“And anyway”, John continues, “Isn't that a weird and frankly hypocritical assumption considering that _you're_ dressed as _me_?”

“No!”, Sherlock says, offended. “You asked me to think about what I would want to wear at a costume party, so I thought, well, this jumper that smells of you. Obviously.”

He sucks in a breath. Said too much, once again. Stupid, stupid alcohol in his system. Must remember not to ever drink again, he makes a mental note. It's scribbled in blurry lines, though. Might fail to compute.

John just stares at him. If Sherlock didn't know any better, he'd think it was that same look from the day they met, while he was making his deductions on their first victim, the lady with the pink suitcase. _That's brilliant. That's fantastic. Do you know you do that out loud?_ He shakes his head, trying to shake the memory.

“I want to fix it”, John abruptly breaks the silence. There's a look on his face, one of realisation. It scares Sherlock to death. This is the part where pity will flash across John's face.

“I haven't stretched your jumper”, Sherlock says. “It will be fine. I'll wash it myself.” Though he knows, on some level, John is not talking about the stupid sweater.

John puts a hand on Sherlock's knee. Sherlock stares at it in surprise. Against all laws of science, an overwhelming heat radiates from it. It's a comforting warmth, that spreads from his knees to higher up. Sherlock trembles, and John leans a little closer.

“You love me”, John states. Sherlock swallows. He feels like he's been slapped, like it's an accusation, but on the other hand, John's hand is still on his knee, so he doesn't know what to make of _that_. He can't bring himself to deny it, either. After all this hiding, he can't put the disguise of an unfeeling sociopath back on. Not while wearing John's sweater.

“Oh, god”, John says. “I'm an idiot. But I can make this deduction. You're in love with me.”

Sherlock is stunned, as his eyes grow watery again. “John, please...” But John puts a hand on his cheek, not to slap him, and Sherlock is overwhelmed by the _tenderness_ of it all.

“I want to fix it”, John says. “Please, can I fix it?”

“W- What?” Sherlock stutters, surprised to hear the sound of his own voice. Heat rises to his cheeks, meeting John's fingertips. John's face moves closer to his, they are almost breathing each other's air. Something restricts Sherlock's chest, he brings up trembling fingers to touch John's cheeks, in return. He traces John's jaw line, in a way he could never have dared dream he ever would. He's touching John. _He's touching John._

“The last confession”, John says, moving his lips closer, almost lightly touching Sherlock's cupid's bow as he says the words. “Never have I ever”, John breathes, and he slowly traces Sherlock's shaking lips with the tip of his tongue. “Had sex with someone who loves me.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- The title is from the song 'John my beloved' by Sufjan Stevens. “I am a man with a heart that offends / With its lonely and greedy demands / There’s only a shadow of me / in a manner of speaking I'm dead”
> 
> \- Couldn't resist a little nod to gymbaglock.
> 
> \- Mycroft was, of course, dressed as the Eleventh Doctor. I've cosplayed as Matt Smith's Doctor once - I actually own the brown tweed jacket. It was great fun!
> 
> \- The mystrade isn't explicit, but I don't think those boys are gonna be able to hide it much longer, lol.
> 
> \- Thanks for reading! Find me on [Tumblr](http://fellshish.tumblr.com/) if you like.


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